Afternoon Tea in BaradDur
by and-now-the-world
Summary: In which Sauron demands his ring, the Witch King fears for his master's sanity and probably more if I get round to writing it. Warnings: this is strange and quite twisted.
1. Default Chapter

A/N: There were lots of things that needed fixing in this, as a nice reviewer (thank you Loki :) ) helpfully pointed out. I've attempted to fix them. There are now carroty things where carroty things are due, and less unnecessary commas.

Warnings: the result of a deranged idea I had in the early hours of the morning when I really should have been sleeping and not inflicting said deranged ideas on the world. Oh well.

Disclaimer: Sauron, the Witch King and any other character you recognise belongs to JRR Tolkien. Actually the Witch King and his underlings technically belong to Sauron, who belongs to Tolkien. Whatever. You get the idea.

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Sauron is sitting atop a pinnacle of Barad-dûr, taking afternoon tea with his favourite minion, the Witch King of Angmar.

Taking a deep lungful of the scorching Mordor air, he wanders to the pseudo-gothic balcony and peers down at his beautiful kingdom of torture.

Then comes the question.

"What's it all for?"

The Lord of the Nazgûl sighs and shakes his hooded head in despair. (They don't call him the Captain of Despair for nothing…) This was the third time this week that the master had questioned his own motives. It was worrying when he was in one of these moods. He could be exceedingly unpredictable.

Without warning, Sauron let out a small chuckle.

Not the usual evil manic chuckle that lacked any humour whatsoever and was expelled from the master's lips when he lighted upon a cunning new torture device, or plan to take over all of Arda – but a genuine chuckle.

This troubled the wraith greatly. Such things were unheard of in the-land-of-Mordor-where-the-shadows-lie.

"Master… are you all right?"

"What? Oh, yes, yes of course! Never better my dear boy! It just occurred to me how amusing our predicament is."

The Nazgûl was slightly taken aback. "Amusing, sir?"

"Why yes!" exclaimed the Dark Lord, "Take me for example, here I am, the most powerful and evil force in all of Middle Earth – thousands of orcs, trolls and men at my disposal, unmatched abilities in sorcery…"

Sauron rattled on for some time. 'Nothing like blowing your own trumpet', muttered the Witch King under his venomous breath, as he helped himself to more tea 1 .

"... And of course nine of my own adorable home-made ringwraiths." Sauron beamed in the Witch King's general direction with a worrying expression of benevolence. "What was that, dear boy?"

"Nothing, nothing…"

"Anyway, as I was saying -here I am with all my power and unmatched evil temperament, and not only have I gone and put the best part of my power into a little insignificant ring but I then had the misfortune to have it chopped off by some jumped-up Gondorian. Along with my finger. " Sauron gazed wistfully at the stump on his left hand. "It was in that little skirmish we had a while back. You remember, with all those elves and whatnot. The Lost… something"

"The Last Alliance?"

"Yes, yes! That's the one. You see, not only has my power gone, but so has my memory. It must be my age."

But of course, it was not his age. The ring affects us all in different ways. Unfortunately, The Lord of the Nazgûl (BSc, SCs, PhD etc. etc.) didn't really know what to say to this, so decided on a change of tack. "Err... more tea sire?"

"Thank you."

A pair of gauntleted hands reached for the black pseudo-gothic teapot and poured its contents into a small black teacup. They then proceeded to add fresh warg milk and two teaspoonfuls of sugar. A thoughtful silence fell upon the two villains.

"I want it back."

"The Ring?"

"No, my virginity. OF COURSE THE RING YOU INCOMPETENT FOOL! Find it. Now. "

"Yessir." The ringwraith leapt to his feet and sped out of the door.

"Finish your tea first you silly boy!" The former lord of Angmar shuffled sheepishly back onto the balcony and drank his tea. "And before you go rallying your incompetent rabble I have a lead for you…"

With that, the Dark Lord stood up and beckoned his minion with an unnaturally long pointy finger. The Witch king followed him to a dark cell in one of Barad-dûr's darkest dungeons. Sitting in a corner of the cell, muttering to itself and rocking backwards and forwards was a small, slimy… thing.

"Nasssty orcses, they hurtsss ussss, precioussss, we doesssnt know, we doesssnt know, precious!" The ramble cumulated to a tortured wail.

"See if you can get any sense out of him. He says he doesn't know, but I'm sure you can… change his mind. " Somewhere under his unnecessary amount of pseudo-gothic armour, Sauron's face contorted into a malicious smirk.

The Nazgûl loomed over the pitiful creature and rubbed his hands together, causing the scraping of iron on iron to echo ominously around the dungeon as his master turned to walk away.

"And Witchy…"

The Nazgûl emitted a long-suffering hiss. "Yes?"

"DON'T mess this up." Sauron held the Nazgûl's icy gaze as he continued down the passage to return to his plotting and scheming.

1. Which incidentally, had been …imported… directly out of the East, to fuel the growing addiction of some of Mordor's more executive personnel. In fact, some of Sauron's favourite troops had been sent to the cause, as the Easterlings refused to give up their tea without a fight. The best thing about it was that those pompous forces of light wouldn't touch it, screaming 'Eastern sorcery! Servants of Sauron! Servants of Sauron!' before collapsing into a terrified stupor.

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A/N: Enjoyed it? Then please review!Didn't enjoy it? Then go and find something better to read! 


	2. Pecking order

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my deranged ideas. 

Warnings: I have a strange, twisted sense of humour.

A/N: Thankyou to those people who reviewed, I do appreciate it!  
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Chapter 2 – Pecking Order

"Well, well, well. What have we here?"

Unsure of the answer himself, Gollum remained silent.

For maximum effect, the Witch King opened the iron door slowly, allowing the _crrrrreak_ that had been fitted into all of Mordor's dungeons to achieve the optimum level of pain to be inflicted on the prisoner's eardrums.

"What do you know about a ring?"

"Err… ring…? What ring?"

"Fine. Have it your way." A gauntleted hand reached out to grab the…thing, which was now cowering in a corner of the cell, quivering and gibbering nonsense to itself.

"Mustn't hurt us preciousss, nasssty wraithses, we mustn't tell them, no, no preciousss…"

The hand paused, amazingly it seemed there were still things that could turn even the decaying stomachs of the Ulairi, and pointed a sharp finger at the …thing's neck. "_ssstay_." The Witch King hissed, in his best 'talking to victims' voice. Poking his head out of the cell, he scouted the dank corridor for a guard. He adopted his most menacing 'talking to underlings' voice.

"Snaga!"

Slowly, all but one of the small circle of orcs turned to look at the smallest and most downtrodden of their number. "Again? Why does it always have to be me?" complained the orc. The others merely grunted and went back to their poker game.

With a sigh, the orc jumped to his feet. "Yessir!"

"Over here! Now!" Abandoning the game, the trembling orc scurried into the cell where the wraith was pointing.

"Get that …thing ready in my," the Witch King lowered his voice to a whispered hiss, to avoid any necessary fuss from Gollum, "_torture chamber _in five minutes, and for the love of Morgoth, don't play with it! It looks frail enough as it is and I want it to TALK!"

"Yes sir, of course sir, anything you say sir!"

"Good. You will find the appropriate _equipment_ in that cupboard." The nazgûl pointed to a small, pseudo-gothic bathroom cupboard hanging lopsidedly on the cell wall.

With that, the Witch King turned abruptly around and stalked out of the cell, leaving the orc to deal with a gibbering Gollum.

The orc, who's name incidentally was Ghashborg (not that anyone cared, or even remembered preferring to call him names such as 'snaga' or 'runt'), sighed, and climbed up on the hard bench to reach the cupboard containing handcuffs, whips, chains and other items necessary for moving prisoners around (1)

"It could be worse, I could be in your position."

Realising that the orc might was talking to him, Gollum looked up from his muttering. "What position does it mean, preciousss?"

"Oh nothing… nothing." There was a strict rule in Lugbúrz, that prisoners were not to be told of their fate until they were actually delivered to the torture chamber. It made them more difficult to deal with, and besides, it spoiled the surprise.

Ignoring the wails of "Nasssty orcses, preciouss! Gollum! Gollum!" (2) Ghashborg bound, gagged and blindfolded Gollum, and led him down far too many staircases towards the Witch King's personal torture chamber in the depths of Barad-dûr.

(1.) Commonly referred to as 'The Bondage Cupboard' by some of the cruder orcs, and regularly pilfered by newly-weds.

(2.) And privately wondering what in Arda the thing was doing in Mordor wearing nothing but a loincloth. Yes, it was a hot fiery desert, but that was no reason for indecency.

TBC


	3. Interrogations Part 1

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Except of course my own twisted ideas.  
A/N: Sorry this has taken so long to do… I did promise continuation, and there shall be continuation! Part 2 is on it's way… As always, feedback is welcomed with open arms/claws/tentacles/useful limb of your choice, now enjoy!

Chapter 3 – Interrogations -Part 1

After much kicking, screaming and hissing of rhetorical questions, Gollum and Ghashborg arrived outside the large ominous iron door (1). Ghashborg gulped and nudged it apprehensively. On cue, the hinges creaked their predictable (and frankly rather tacky) _crrreak_, and swung upon.

The orc squinted as he was blinded by rows upon rows of sharp, shiny torture equipment. Someone obviously had rather too much time their hands. A tall and ominous ringwraith was stood at the far wall, back turned, examining the extensive collection of sharp pointy implements. Without turning around, he responded with the air of one who has spent the best part of two millennia dealing with incompetent minions. "For the last time, #7 – there is no way in Angband that I am letting you borrow my best thumbscrews! At least not until you bring back that serrated scalpel of mine that I lent you back in the second age!"

An iron-clad foot tapped impatiently as he selected a particularly nasty looking device from the selection. Whirling around, he stopped abruptly when he saw that the intruder was in fact not #7 looking to pilfer his immaculate collection of torture implements for the third time that evening.

Although secretly relived, the Witch king sneered and advanced towards Ghashborg and the prisoner. "You're late. The little slimy thing prove too much for you did it?"

"No not exactly, sire…" At this point Gollum chose to speak up. "How dares it! Nasssty wraithses calls us slimy! We is not slimy, is we preciousss?" A spiky iron boot promptly emerged from underneath the 'Mordorian Black' robe and swiftly quelled the deranged ramblings. "Shut up", barked it's owner, and then to Ghashborg, "Nevermind, bring it over here."

Ignoring the protests, Ghashborg dragged Gollum over to the pseudo-gothic… dentist's chair. (2)

Instinctively, Gollum began to tremble and quiver and had to be suitably restrained using an assortment of bondage equipment.

It was at this point, just as Ghashborg had scuttled away to his poker game and the Witch King had selected a moderately sharp and pointy implement from his extensive collection, that an inappropriately cheerful knock came at the door.

The Witch King let out an exasperated hiss, and replied (in his most terrifying "do not bother me for I am a big scary Nazgul" voice), "What?"

TBC…

Which Sauron, during a worrying bout of generosity, had had specially made last Yule, to comfortably accommodate his exceptionally tall minion. It really ruined the effect when the otherwise terrifying, undead, spiky-gauntleted torturer bumped his head on the doorframe…

2. Yes, the infamous Dentist's Chair appeared first in the depths of Barad-Dûr. It was obviously readily adopted by modern day dentists due to their need to satisfy their in-built sadistic instincts without generating lawsuits.


	4. Interruptions

Disclaimer – all stolen shamelessly without permission

Warnings – contains some mildly disturbing masochistic themes

A/N – I'm sorry about this one. It's a bit of a digression, but it had been lurking on my computer from way back when, and I don't have the heart to ignore it. Based heavily on that scene from 'The Little Shop of Horrors'. This is just a little idea I had to get out of my system about the similarities of That Dentist and Mordor's Best Torturers.

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Interruptions (or Interrogations – Part 2)

Without waiting for permission, the intruder flung open the Witch King's pseudo- gothic iron door, and marched into the centre of the room.

"I can't take it anymore!"

The Nazgûl raised an invisible and rather decayed eyebrow. By all laws of nature, there should not be an eyebrow there at all, the Witch King and his band of vagabonds should all be entirely bald after centuries of wandering the earth, but nevertheless, that eyebrow remained.

While feigning puzzlement and a healthy dose of amnesia (it was to be expected given his age), the Witch King knew exactly who this man was, and why he was keeping him from his waiting (and now rather curious) torture victim. The man was not exceptionally tall, and whether it was due to the meagre prison diet, or the fact that he constantly seemed to be twitching or hopping erratically from foot to foot – he seemed thinner than he perhaps ought to be. Bones seemed to jut out at odd angles, and looked as if they might have been obtained second hand (or foot…) from a variety of unsuitably matched skeletons.

The man also had a considerable amount of rather disconcerting (and mostly self-inflicted) injuries. From the rash on his left forearm where he was scratching fervently with well-chewed nails – to the marks on his thumbs from the obvious overuse of rusty thumbscrews.

The man was a masochist, and a professional one at that, who hailed from the Northern Waste, where there wasn't really any call for a professional masochist. After hearing about the excellent (and rather horrific) service to be had as a prisoner in Barad-Dûr, he had packed his bags, and parked himself outside the gates until someone decided he was enough of an annoyance to arrest.

Unfortunately, under the new fair and diplomatic rule of Sauron's latest Mouth (1), merely sitting outside the gates had not been enough to get him a long term position in the lightless dungeons of Barad-Dûr – it was now required that he actually _do _something to earn his keep.

This something had resulted in said masochistic prisoner, whose name is not really important, taking the trouble to deface the dark walls of Mordor with the heinous, and guaranteed to be punishable, phrase 'Sauron is a cissy'. Of course, due to the limited nature of the Black Speech vocabulary, this translation was no mean feat, and its shoddy execution resulted in an passing enraged orc guard lecturing him on word order and use of the accusative case.

After being forced at spear-point to write out the grammatically correct version eleventy-one times, he was promptly arrested for 'childish namecalling and obscene ignorance of the subtle grammatical nuances of the Orcish language.

"But I'm not due for another session until…" The man produced a small battered card and studied it carefully, "next half-moon!" (2). Somewhere in the wraithworld, the Witch-King's face twisted into an expression which hovered between amusement and disdain. Someone had obviously been trying to organise things. The Witch king was putting his bets on The Mouth.

To be brutally honest, the Witch king could see nothing wrong with the old system. Prisoners were brought in, and when the Dark Lord felt it necessary, or when they seemed too cheerful, or if they began to annoy the guards, or as was more common, one of the Nine needed something to take out his anger at eternal enslavement on, the were tortured.

But those days were gone. The Mouth felt the system was unfair, he thought that to keep up Mordor's reputation as 'a very nasty place', prisoners should receive equal amounts of torture, regardless of colour or creed, height or disposition. He also believed the Nazgûl deserved equal numbers of torturees. Apparently it was no longer deemed fair that the Witch King got first pick of the prisoners just because he was the tallest and had the shiniest gauntlets.

The prisoner leaned in conspiratally to add, "And between you and me… #7 isn't half as good."

The Witch King was not renowned for his resistance to flattery (which was what had got him in this mess in the first place). "Really? Go on…"

The Nazgûl listened with great interest as the prisoner gave a detailed comparison of the differences and similarities between the torture techniques used by #7 and the Witch King. "…And in conclusion," the prisoner wheezed, staring longingly at the gleaming knives upon the wall, " you're generally… much… better."

A small and twisted smile found its way on to the Witch King's face. Knowledge that his radical and yet effective use of the serrated scalpel was appreciated pleased him greatly. "Very well," he turned and with one swift arm movement, removed Gollum unceremoniously from the Chair. "Hop on."

The prisoner leapt with ectastic glee onto the chair to claim his prize, as Gollum crawled away unnoticed to hide in a corner, mumbling and hissing to himself.

1. That is, the idea that arresting people just for the sake of it was not really very nice.

2. I know not what calendar Mordor runs on, (if anyone out there does know, then feel free to educate me), but I'm going to assume it's based somehow on the phases of the moon.


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